


I Choose You!

by firstlightofeos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Children, Erik is a Sweetheart, First Meetings, Gen, Pokemon - Freeform, Pokemon References, The Author Regrets Nothing, Waaaaaay too many Pokemon References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pokéjourney of a thousand miles starts with a (few) very important step(s).</p><p>(In which bb!Erik gains a frenemy and his very first Pokémon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Choose You!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/gifts).



> I was digging through my Google Drive and found this ooooold (>3 years old) document called "A thing for Unf," and I was really entertained (and so was Unf) when I realized what it actually was. It's short and silly, and I hope you're as entertained by it as I was!

Erik has always wanted to be the very best, better than anyone there ever was. He’s grown up with a legend—Edie Lehnsherr was the first female trainer to complete a Pokédex, and the first trainer to manage to catch both Latias and Latios (she later set them free, but Latias has barely left her side since). But Erik doesn’t just want to be a great trainer like his mama; he wants to be even _better_. He wants to complete his Pokédex _and_ defeat every trainer in every gym and the Elite Four and the Battle Frontier _and_ be the youngest trainer to do it. 

He can do it, he knows he can. He’s not even thirteen yet and he’s already won every virtual tournament, beaten every game, collected every card. He knows Pokémon inside and out; he’s a force to be _feared_. One day soon, everyone’s going to know his name—and not just because of his mother.

There’s just one problem: he doesn’t have a Pokémon yet. Oh, he’s played with Pokémon and (mock-)battled Pokémon and grown up with Pokémon everywhere—Mama started letting him play with her baby Pokémon from when he was barely able to walk himself, and he still uses his hippity-hop to race her Azumarill every now and again (not that he’d ever let anyone know this; he has a reputation to build, and it doesn’t involve him being seen with the favorite Pokémon of squealing girls and Pokétrainers who prize cuteness over power)—but he’s never owned a Pokémon, never had one that answers to him and him alone. Every time he asks Mama to borrow a Pokémon and some Pokéballs so he can get started, she just says, “Not yet, dear; you’re not ready.” 

He _is_ ready, has been since he was four and held a Pokéball in his hands for the first time. He doesn’t know how much longer he can wait. 

***

Two weeks before Erik’s thirteenth birthday, he’s racing Edie’s Doduo in the backyard, Latias looking on indulgently, when the bushes rustle. Thinking it’s a wild Pokémon—maybe a Wurmple, those creatures are complete pests, he doesn’t know why anyone bothers catching them or training them when they’re so completely useless—he breaks course and pounces, yelling, “Doduo! Fury attack!”

There’s a very human-sounding yelp, followed by a loud, “Ow!” after Erik kicks out blindly. The intruder in the bushes shoves back, driving Erik back into the yard, and a moment later, he finds himself sitting on the ground, staring up at the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. 

Not a Wurmple, then. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” the intruder asks. He’s a young boy, maybe about Erik’s age, pale and freckled with wavy brown hair, wearing the standard uniform for the local school—short-sleeved button-down shirt, khaki shorts, brown lace-ups—his hands on his hips and his (blue, so blue) eyes narrowed to slits. Erik notices with satisfaction that there’s a bruise blooming on his shin. 

“You were hiding in the bushes!” Erik says, shoving himself off the ground, returning the other boy’s glare as he brushes the dirt off his own shorts. He notices that Doduo and Latias have vanished. Weird. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t a wild Zigzagoon come to steal my stuff?”

“You don’t _attack_ the bushes just because you think there’s a Pokémon hiding there, and anyway, humans aren’t supposed to attack Pokémon; Pokémon attack Pokémon!”

“Who made you the expert, anyway?” Erik shoots back. 

“My father’s a Pokémon Professor,” the boy says. “We just moved here; he wants to do research on rare Pokémon, and someone here has a _Latias_.” His voice sounds awed.

“That’s my mom,” Erik says, rubbing the back of his neck a little sheepishly. Mama is _not_ going to be pleased when she finds him. The boy gives him a sharp look, and Erik glares again, just daring him to say something insulting about his mother. 

Then the boy sighs. 

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says, holding out his right hand. “I’m Charles, Charles Xavier.” 

Erik stares. Who _is_ this kid, with his posh accent and his well-fitting clothes and his adult mannerisms and his freakish eyes? He’s unlike anyone Erik’s ever met before—and Erik’s not sure he likes it.

Charles coughs awkwardly and lets his hand fall back to his side. 

“Right,” he says. “I should be getting home, then. I just wanted to come over and see who lived here, but I suppose I shouldn’t have bothered.” He doesn’t sound angry, just sad, and Erik suddenly feels guilty. 

“I’m sorry I attacked you,” he says quickly, stepping forward. He debates for a moment, and then holds out his hand. “I’m Erik Lehnsherr.”

Charles smiles widely and takes Erik’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Erik.” He pumps Erik’s arm up and down enthusiastically until Erik looks down at it meaningfully, at which point Charles lets go hurriedly and takes a few steps back, his cheeks turning red. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” Erik says, feeling a bit awkward. They stare at each other, neither quite sure what to say. 

Finally, the silence is broken by a woman’s voice yelling, “Charles? Charles!” from the next yard over.

“That’s my mum,” Charles offers. “I suppose I should get going.” 

Erik nods. 

“‘Bye, then,” Charles says. He walks back over to the bushes. 

He’s about to shove through when Erik says, “Wait—Charles!” 

Charles turns around, beaming. 

“Would you maybe—that is, if you want—you could maybe come over some time?” Erik asks. “I can ask Mama if I can introduce you to Latias.”

Charles’s smile is so bright it could probably power the Mauville Gym. 

“I’d like that,” he says. “I’d like that very much. Thank you, Erik.”

Then he disappears through the bushes, leaving Erik wondering what just happened.

***

A week later, Charles comes over to show Erik the Pokémon his father just gave him. 

“It’s a Mudkip,” he says excitedly. “Father says I can go Training this year; he says I can leave as early as next week!” 

Erik just glares. Charles is younger than him (by two whole months!) and he’s already got a Pokémon and his parents are letting him go on his Training. Mama still keeps telling Erik he’s too young. 

And then, of course, Charles just _had_ to pick a Mudkip, when Erik _told_ him that he wanted to start with a Torchic, because fire Pokémon are the best starters when half the wild Pokémon around Littleroot Town are bug-type. Erik doesn’t know why he ever thought he and Charles could be friends; clearly, Charles wants to be his rival. 

Fine. That’s just fine. Erik can be Charles’s rival. He’ll be the best rival anyone’s ever had. 

“It’s stupid, and you’re stupid, and I hope you get lost and faint a lot when you go Training and all your Pokéballs break,” he says meanly. He then turns his around and stomps back inside his house. 

He pretends not to see the look of hurt on Charles’s face. 

***

Erik wakes up on his thirteenth birthday hoping—as he does every other birthday—that today will be the day, the one where Mama finally says he's ready to go Training. He goes downstairs, half expecting to be disappointed again, but when he gets to the dining room, there's a brand-new Pokédex and six empty Pokéballs sitting by his plate, his parents beaming at him from across the table.

He shouts and dashes forward to tuck the Pokédex and the Pokéballs into his pockets and then runs over to his parents, throwing his arms around them.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou _thankyou_ ," he says breathlessly, squeezing as hard as he can.

Mama laughs. "You're welcome, _liebling_ ," she says, stroking his hair. “You’ve earned it.”

"Now eat,” Papa says, nudging him away. “And then we’ll go over to Professor Xavier’s lab and get you your starter Pokémon.”

Both Erik’s parents laugh as he rushes back to the table and inhales his breakfast at a speed that would put a Lickitung to shame. For once, Mama doesn’t tell him to slow down—she understands. He’s been waiting for this day for _years_.

***

“Erik!” Professor Xavier beams, looking up from the mess of wires and dismantled Pokéballs on his desk. “Happy birthday!”

Erik likes Professor Xavier, he does; he’s always got a smile for everyone, his pockets full of berries that he hands out like candy to people and Pokémon alike. But Professor Xavier is also Charles’s father, and the person who gave Charles a Pokémon—and a Mudkip at that.

But Erik refuses to dwell on that any more than he has to; today is a special day, and he refuses to let anyone, least of all Charles Xavier, ruin it.

“Thank you,” he says politely, mindful of his mother standing right behind him.

“So,” Professor Xavier says. “Your parents say you’re ready for your starter Pokémon. Do you agree?”

Erik nods rapidly, too excited to speak. Professor Xavier claps his hands twice, and the wall to the right lifts up, revealing three sparkling pedestals—one ruby, one sapphire, and one emerald—arranged in a triangle. A larger-than-usual-Pokéball, stamped with both the signs of the Pokémon Breeders and the local university, sits in the middle of a plush velvet cushion atop both the emerald and ruby pedestals; the sapphire pedestal's cushion is conspicuously empty.

“You have your choice of either a Torchic or a Treecko,” the professor says, gesturing to the ruby and emerald pedestals in turn. “I’m sorry I don’t have a Mudkip right now; I’m still waiting for the egg from the Breeders to hatch.” Erik appreciates that he doesn’t mention Charles.

He stares at the Pokéballs, thinking. He’s wanted a Torchic for years, ever since he sat down at the age of eight and planned out his entire Training expedition, down to the type of ball he’d use to catch each Pokémon and the exact party he’d have at any given time—but Charles is his rival now, and grass-type Pokémon are the only type that’s super-effective against Marshtomp and Swampert, whereas Torchic will always be weak to Mudkip and its evolutions, but then again, Torchic is super-effective against most of the early Pokémon Erik will run into, which means faster training and easier leveling up, and Grass-type is weaker than Fire-type, and—

“Erik?” Mama prompts gently, nudging him forward.

Erik thinks about flipping a coin, but really, he can’t look away from the glowing ruby pedestal. It’s calling to him, has been calling to him for years, and before he can think the better of it, he reaches out and grabs the Pokéball off its red cushion. It glows brightly, burning fire-hot for a brief instant, though when Erik takes away his hand, he’s unharmed.

“Good choice,” Papa praises. “Go on, son, let him out; let’s see your Pokémon.”

Erik presses the button on the front of the ball with trembling fingers, watches the red beam solidify into a tiny orange chick with yellow down. It cries loudly before dashing forward and running in circles around Erik’s legs. Its legs keep moving when Erik picks it up, windmilling in the air in a way that should be ridiculous but that Erik finds unbelievably endearing.

This is his Pokémon, his _first_ Pokémon, all his—and as it looks up at Erik, blinking its big black eyes, Erik feels his heart melt. He doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing.

“Hi,” he says quietly. The Torchic stills, then lets out another piercing cry, as if it’s greeting him in return. “You and me, we’re going to show them all.” It cries again, quieter this time, and flaps its tiny wings.

He turns to his parents just in time to see his mother wipe away her tears with a loud sniff as his father puts his arm around her shoulders.

“We’re very proud of you, Erik,” Papa says, sounding uncharacteristically gruff. “What are you going to name him?”

Erik’s had this name picked out since he was eight, but it still feels new, exciting, like the beginning of something amazing, when he looks back at his Torchic and says, his voice thick, “Burninator. His name is Burninator.”

“Burninator,” Mama says, perfectly serious (though Erik sees her lips twitch), walking forward and resting her hand on the tuft of feathers sticking out of the top of Torchic’s head. “Welcome to the family.”

She enfolds Erik in a tight hug, Pokémon and all. In that moment, Erik feels like he can do anything—like he _will_ do everything.

He’s ready.


End file.
